miserable, and ashamed a lass as the world contains. As I am seating myself disconsolately, Miss Tyburn calls me, and I jump up to obey her bidding.
"Mr. Frere knows your father, Helen Adair," she says; "he would like to talk to you," and she rises and sails away towards the house, for which I am thankful. How could I talk to any one before her?
"And so you are Alan Adair's daughter?" says Mr. Frere, stretching out a kind hand: "and I never found it out until to-day."
"I knew you, sir," I say nodding. "I have seen you hanging up in the library, you know."
"Has your father still that old likeness?" he asks, smiling.
"Oh, yes! Were you and papa very great friends, sir?"
"Not very," he says, smiling again; "what made you think so?"
"He does not keep photographs or—or pictures, generally."
"I knew him when we were both young men at Silverbridge."
"At Silverbridge!" I exclaim, my eyes sparkling. “You know my old home, then?"
"Yes, but your father was not married then. I suppose he has several children by this time?"
"A few, sir; twelve."
"Twelve!" he repeats, starting back. "You are joking?"
"No, it is quite true! and goodness knows—for I'm sure we don't—whether there won't be as many more! At home there is always a baby, and they mount up, you know."
"And I have not one!" he says in a voice that is cheerful, and yet has a faint undertone of regret.
"Oh! you need not wish you had any!" I say, shaking my head: "you would never be able to keep them in order—never. Papa often says that if he had his time over again he would not have
